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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25985257">home is other people</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/workthewentz/pseuds/absurdiist'>absurdiist (workthewentz)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, Light (and accidental) meal skipping, M/M, Museums, no beta we die like men</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:00:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,533</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25985257</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/workthewentz/pseuds/absurdiist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"The meaning of Sartre's quote, "Hell is other people," is that people choose their own meanings, and in doing so they choose their own problems." Then, if home is other people, can we choose our own comforts as well?</p><p>Starving artist and museum educator Steve Rogers is struggling to find inspiration for his paintings despite having talent to spare. When he gets himself into hot water, Stark contractor Bucky Barnes is there to catch him when he falls. Inspiration follows suit, as does a love story, where they both find comfort in each other.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>home is other people</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The keys stuck in the lock, as they did every single night, and Steve had to lean his weight against the doorframe to muster up the strength to yank them out. He trudged into the apartment, noting for the third night in a row that he needed to water his plants. They sagged by the window to the fire escape, a timid hello, and Steve thought that they looked nearly as tired as he felt. He filled a glass at the sink, pouring some into the soil of each pot, then refilled the glass and guzzled it down. He cast a longing glance over to his bedroom door, then steeled himself; painting first, then sleep. Sleep could always come later.</p><p>The day had been, in a word, <em>long</em>. Ridiculously so. He'd had to write up five proposals for new exhibits, submit the requests for artifacts from other museums, and give an immeasurable amount of tours to inquisitive students, tourists, and history enthusiasts. All this before updating the museum's website to include upcoming exhibitions. And he was required to collaborate with the design team to create pamphlets for said exhibitions tomorrow.</p><p>He scrubbed his hand over his face, letting out a long sigh. Again he thought about his bed, and how tempting it was to climb into it and let himself go comatose until his alarm clock went off eight hours from now. But instead he shoved open his window and climbed over the ledge onto the fire escape, taking in the cool evening air. It had the intended effect of forcing him to open his eyes, shiver, and become aware of the energy of the city buzzing around him. He looked down and across the street, trying to catch glimpses of life for inspiration. He noticed a couple kissing on the sidewalk outside a hotel, his hands in her back pockets and her hair blowing around the both of them, creating a shield from the rest of the world. He felt a pang of jealousy and let his eyes drift away, noticing a young girl pulling her reluctant dog down the street, a taxi depositing a drunk elderly man onto the sidewalk, a violinist playing something fast and enticing as people cheered around her. But inspiration didn't come, and Steve returned to the couple, who were pulling apart with melancholy smiles on their faces. The woman vanished into the hotel and the man walked in the opposite direction, towards the violinist, and dropped something into her case.</p><p>When the man disappeared from sight, Steve ducked back into his apartment and pulled a fresh canvas from a pile of about a dozen half-finished paintings. He squeezed just the right amount of reds, blues, purples, and yellows onto his palette and smiled, remembering the form of the man as he bent down to tip the violinist. Steve began here, with the curve of his body, the movement of his wrist, the balance in his stance, and let his emotions pour out of him. When he sat back to take a look at the painting, he realized that he had depicted the scene in much sharper colors than he had intended; it was almost harsh, the angles hard and unforgiving. It almost suggested the man to be a villain, or maybe in danger, instead of the soft lover Steve had wanted him to be. He hissed through his teeth and deposited the canvas on top of the rest.</p><p>By the time Steve changed into his pajamas, it was four in the morning. <em>Oh well</em>, he thought. <em>One more day of torture until the weekend</em>.</p><p> </p><p>But, engrossed in his painting as he had been the night before, Steve woke up at eight-thirty five with a jolt and hunger pangs in his stomach. He'd slept right through his alarm, or maybe a power flicker had reset the old digital clock, but right now it didn't matter. He had to be at work in twenty-five minutes, and with a fifteen minute commute there was no time for eating. There was barely time to dress in his rumpled polo and slacks from the day before, brush his teeth, flatten his hair, and half-jog to the subway. Miraculously, the train was on time, and when he sank into the dirty plastic seat he finally let himself relax, pulling out his phone to avoid dozing off during the ride.</p><p>He was dead on his feet as he walked into the staff entrance of the museum, stopping short in front of the security desk. Natalia was reading something riveting, judging by the way her red hair hung over the pages as her spine folded at an angle to meet the book. "Morning," Steve huffed, frustrated at her lack of attentiveness.</p><p>"Morning, Rogers. You look like hell," Natalia replied, not glancing up at him for a second. "I'm guessing you stayed up all night again?"</p><p>"You know me so well." Once again, Steve felt the familiar pain of hunger creeping up on him, and, at a snail's pace, reached for the shiny red apple in front of Natalia on the desk.</p><p>"Don't even think about it. Go to work," she said cheerfully, as Steve gaped at her. There was no way she could have seen that. "Goodbye." He huffed once again and turned on his heel, trudging towards the graphic design department.</p><p>Most of the day went by on autopilot, with Steve counting down the minutes until he could take his lunch. Even Bruce, the museum's design curator, managed to evade Steve's normal vehemence when it came to his work. He almost asked what was wrong, but thought better of it -- the only person on the entire staff with a temper to match his was Steve's, especially when his reputation was on the line, and if Bruce could escape that fierceness for a day then he'd rather not poke the sleepy, irritable bear. And it almost worked, until it didn't.</p><p>Steve knew that hunger was the enemy of hypotension, and that lack of sleep didn't get along with those two either. But when the little girl on the museum tour with her private school looked up at him and asked, "Do you know how to tie shoes?" and squinted at him (suspiciously, as if he <em>should</em> know how to tie shoes, because he was a grown-up), he caved and bent down to tie it for her. And when he straightened his body and looked up again, he reaped the consequences. Dizziness took him by surprise, and he stumbled, lightheaded, towards the railing. As if it wasn't bad enough already, when he took a step his knees buckled, and the last thing he saw before his body hit something solid was the little girl's mouth formed into a perfect <em>o</em> shape.</p><p> </p><p>When he blinked his eyes open, he was in a white room, in a white bed, with white covers strewn over his figure, and white tape securing the IV hooked into his left hand. Natalia sat beside him, poring over the same book she had been reading at the security desk, so Steve chanced a guess that it was still the same day. His throat was raw and scratchy, and he grunted a greeting at Natalia to get her attention.</p><p>She started, then slowly leveled her head to stare at him, her eyes and mouth three flat lines. "Hello, sunshine." He cut his eyes to the water cup beside her and she obliged, moving to let him sip at the small straw. Once he was finished drinking, he cleared his throat and tried to ask,</p><p>"How long was I out for?"</p><p>Still glaring at him, Natalia set the cup down on the table beside his bed. "Not long. Mild case of dehydration, which is what the IV is for. Bruce is pissed because you didn't tell him how you were feeling. <em>I'm</em> pissed because you didn't tell <em>me</em> how you were feeling."</p><p>Steve huffed a stubborn sigh. "Lunch was twenty minutes away, Nat. I thought I could make it."</p><p>"And obviously you couldn't," she said, exasperated. "You can't just skip meals, Steve." Underneath the scolding, Steve detected a bit of concern in her voice, and softened his approach.</p><p>"I'm sorry, Nat. It was just-"</p><p>"The paintings again, I know. But that doesn't mean you can work days in a row without eating or sleeping. Lucky mister tall, dark, and handsome was there or you might have hit your head on the railing."</p><p>That part caught Steve off guard. "Mister who?"</p><p>Natalia smirked, the first outward show of emotion Steve had seen since he'd woken up. "This guy caught you. He was pretty gorgeous, actually. Yay high, long brown hair, skinny jeans, nice ass."</p><p>"Nat!"</p><p>She laughed. "He got you right before you hit the ground, got some Gatorade to your lips. He held you until the ambulance came. I imagine the dehydration would've been a lot worse if it wasn't for him." </p><p>Suddenly Steve had a pang of longing for this mystery stranger. "Do you know who he was?"</p><p>"Nope," Nat replied, popping the <em>p</em>. "Random visitor, it looked like. You got lucky."</p><p>At that moment, the nurse poked her head in, explaining to Steve that he was free to go as soon as the doctor came in to see him. The doctor was unyielding; he went over the correct ways to treat dehydration and then scolded Steve, much like Natalia had, about missing meals and sleep deprivation. Steve sheepishly thanked him and then pulled on his clothes and called a taxi to get himself home.</p><p>It was late afternoon when Steve finally wrestled with the lock on his door, making a mental note to visit the hardware store sometime in the next week. He was tired, his arm ached, and he wanted to get a headstart on his proposals; but, he thought, that could wait. He walked over to the fire escape window and yanked it up, opting for the first time in weeks not to go outside; he already had his inspiration.</p><p>The canvas ended up a dark sheath of brown, a faceless figure viewed from below, a pair of hands caressing his face. When Steve finished it was dark, his eyes were lidded, paint was strewn all over his hands and forearms – but it was beautiful. The stranger had occupied every corner of Steve's right side brain. Where Steve lacked, the memory of that solid warmth had filled in the gaps, and though he never saw his face, Steve knew the man was stunning. He felt pulled to his art in ways he hadn't in months, and when he washed the paint off his hands and curled up to sleep, he felt whole. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Between traveling back and forth to eastern Europe and holding up some semblance of life as a normal person, it was weeks before Bucky had the time to check on the man who had fainted at the museum. Still, the concern was there constantly, and Bucky found himself distracted while teaching his firearms classes by blond hair and pale cheeks. So he resolved to swing by the museum as soon as humanly possible. Besides, he was sure he could justify it as part of his normal person training.</p><p>There was a plane, and a train, and a busy street, all done on autopilot, and suddenly he was back in Brooklyn, standing in the shadow of the museum. His pack from Belarus still strapped to his back, he marveled once again at the arched entryway, the beautiful lighted brick and heavy, dark steel doors. Upon entering, security attempted to confiscate his bag, but he quickly procured an ID from one of the many pockets on his cargo vest. The security director, a graceful, limber redhead, eyed the Stark Industries badge dubiously but waved him through. As he walked around the great hall, eyes peeled for the blond man, his eyes were drawn to the paintings and sculptures before him. He was far from an expert, but there was only so much traveling you could do before the sheer exposure to so many styles of art honed your eye.</p><p>Bucky was standing in the concessions line, tapping his foot impatiently, when he finally spotted the man he'd been looking for. A flash of blond hair and a sharp temperament. He stood behind the counter, briefly conversing with the cashier, before setting a stack of paper on the counter and then disappearing once again. When Bucky finally reached the front of the line, he ordered a banana muffin and asked the cashier to fill his water bottle before pointing at the flyers and asking, "What's this?"</p><p>"Steve – our, uh, educator? I think that's his title. He paints. There's an exhibition tomorrow night that he's in. You're welcome to take one!"</p><p>Bucky flashed a grateful smile at the cashier as she handed him the white paper bag containing his muffin. He plucked a flyer from the top of the pile. "I think I will, thank you." He disappeared from sight then and headed back outside, smirking over his muffin and walking quickly down the sidewalk. He had an exhibition to attend.</p><p> </p><p>Steve was above throwing his canvases. He was not, however, above throwing his paintbrushes, his empty paint water glasses, or his smudger. Natalia watched, perched calmly on the couch, as Steve had his meltdown. When he seemed to calm, carding his hands through his hair, she uncurled her legs from under her, padded over and wrapped her arms around him. She hated hugs, but Steve loved them, and she knew he was stressed about the exhibition. When he leaned into her, sighing, she pulled away and began picking up the strewn brushes.</p><p>"I have something to tell you," she said. "Your stranger came by the museum yesterday." She placed the brushes on the stool next to Steve's easel. "He did?" She tried not to smile at the hopefulness, so obvious in Steve's voice.</p><p>"He did," she confirmed, then hesitated, not sure if she should disclose too much information. "He didn't stay long. I suppose he wanted to check on you. He works for Stark Industries."</p><p>"Did you get his name?"</p><p>"I didn't." And that was a lie, a bold one at that, seeing as she'd been the one to take his ID. But Steve didn't know this, so she stuck with it. "He was wearing military gear this time, Steve. He's either security or... a different type of security. I don't like the idea of that."</p><p>"It doesn't matter, Nat. I'm not trying to get into his line of work. I just want to meet him." Instead of angry or stressed, Steve just looked sad. Natalia closed her eyes and tried to pretend she hadn't seen the paintings Steve was showcasing tonight, the beautiful faceless porcelain figures dancing and kissing and <em>living</em>. The feeling behind them, that melancholy longing, was what had gotten Steve into the exhibition in the first place. He pulled one last canvas out from the bottom of the pile, the painting he'd done the first night he was released from the hospital, and tucked it into his gallery bag. "I'm ready."</p><p>"Not dressed like that, you're not."</p>
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